Authors: Simon Brooke
“That’s a possibility,” I say. It is, actually.
“That’s the problem with you Brits, you have no get up and go,” she adds. “Someone pointed it out to me on Concorde last month—you go to the best schools, the best colleges and then you all go and work for some big corporation, like rats on a wheel. It’s crazy. Start your own business—that’s the only way to do it, Andrew.”
“I’ve got a degree in Business Studies. For God’s sake, I should be able to do something with it, shouldn’t I?” I’m quite warming to this idea. I hope she is too. But it’s never quite that simple. “I just need the capital.”
“Sell things,” she says absentmindedly. “Sell things to rich people. Antiques, cars … what else? Horses. Rich people
love
horses. You should meet my friend Carla who lives in Argentina. She has a stack of horses. And those other things … er, cattle. Loves them.” She is distracted for a moment and then continues. “Sell things. Sell things to rich people, they’ll always be buying whatever the economy does,” she adds with a flourish.
I sometimes wonder whether Marion lives in the real world. Then I realize she doesn’t—which is the whole point of her.
“Thanks, very helpful,” I say but my sarcasm is wasted on her as usual.
“It’s the only way to develop yourself professionally.” I decide to go for broke—after all I’ve got nothing to lose.
“Marion,” I say, trying the little-boy thing. “I’ve just got no money.”
“I know, you mentioned it before. We’ll sort something out. Do you know where I can get one of those plug things?”
“What?”
“You know by the bed I’ve got a lamp and a radio and an ionizer and now I’ve got this humidifier. I want one of those things to plug them all in together.”
“You mean an adaptor,” I say miserably.
“What’s it called?”
“An adaptor.”
“Yeah, that’s right—an adaptor. Where can I buy one from?”
“Oh, I don’t know—Peter Jones across the way from you.”
“In Sloane Square?”
“Yeah, they’ll have one.”
“OK.” I hear her throw some more pretzels into her mouth and shout to Anna Maria. “Peter Jones—that big store in Sloane Square has them, Andrew says. Oh, and take these goddamn pretzels away from me before I eat the lot.” There is a pause while she hands Anna Maria some stray pretzels and I decide for the umpteenth time to jack it in with her and find another rich woman. I’m beginning to wonder if anyone with money is as reluctant as Marion to actually give any of it out—even to their lover. I pull the telephone cable out straight, distractedly, while I ponder that must be worth one last try. I could spend my life on the phone talking column inches and discount rates, if I’m not careful. Anyway, if Mark can do it so successfully, why can’t I? I just can’t believe that every rich divorcee or widow can be so fucking mean and plain exhausting to go out with as Marion. She is talking again.
“Listen, honey, I’m going away this weekend to Venice to see an old, old friend. Do you want to borrow the car while I’m away?”
Do I?
“Gosh that would be great,” I say sweetly. (Gosh? When do I ever say “Gosh?”)
“That’s good. I don’t want that asshole racing around London in it while I’m away.”
“Sure.”
“You know he still lives with his mother? The back seat of my car is the only place he can fuck in peace and quiet.”
“Bloody hell.”
“Makes me sick just thinking about it. OK, come by any time and pick up the keys from Anna Maria. I’m going Friday. What do you want?”
“How do you mean?”
“From Venice. What do you want from Venice?”
“Oh, whatever.”
“Oh, you. I’ll find you something nice.”
I have to stifle a contemptuous laugh.
Vinny arrives back with Malc just as I put the phone down.
“Evenin’ all,” he says. I nod hello to Malc.
“Where have you been?” I say absentmindedly, flicking around between channels.
“Have you missed me, darling?” says Vinny.
“Been counting the seconds.”
“Jane’s just on her way over,” he mutters, watching the telly. “Christ! Hasn’t this woman got a big mouth? Imagine snogging that! You could bloody fall in.”
I sit up and find myself looking down at what I’m wearing. Navy-blue polo shirt and faded 501s—neither of which seem to have anything spilt down them, strangely enough. I check that my collar isn’t turned in and then mutter, “Oh, OK.”
“OK, is that all?” he says, surprised.
“Whatever,” I say coolly.
“Whateve-e-e-r,” drools Vinny.
“What does that mean?”
“I saw that discreet wardrobe check.”
“What are you talking about?”
“I’m talkin’ about
lurrve!”
He gives me a sideways look through narrowed eyes. “I think you find Jane strangely …”
“Oh, leave it out, will you?” I say, laughing with embarrassment.
“Malc’s a mate of hers,” he says, savouring this information.
“Oh, right,” I say quickly. “So?”
“Just saying.”
“Knew her at college,” says Malc, scratching his shaved head. “Nice girl.”
“Yeah, she is,” I say. “And did you go out with her? Did you have sex with her?
What was it like?
Was it any good? Were you any good?” I ask. Well, I don’t, of course, but I’d like to.
Vinny hasn’t given up.
“Is that the beginnings of a blush spreading across those chiselled features?”
“Look, mate, your nose will be spreading across your features, if you don’t shut up,” I tell him.
“Oooh, be like that,” says Vinny. “Just thought Malc might be able to fill you in.”
“I don’t need filling in. Now piss off.”
“OK,” says Vinny, enjoying my discomfort.
Just then the door buzzer goes. Suddenly Vinny screeches theatrically and throws his hands into the air. “Argh! Panic. She’s here and I haven’t a thing to wear. Quick! Mouthwash! Cologne! Moisturizer.”
“Oh, blow it out your arse, will you.”
“Your hair’s sticking out at the back,” he says seriously as he gets up to let her in. Discreetly I spit on my hand and attempt to press down the disobedient locks.
When they’re not drinking lager out of smeary glasses, Vinny and Jane’s idea of an evening’s entertainment consists of making pancakes, I discover. Malc has gone to meet some friends in the West End so Vinny and I sit at the table and drink the cans Jane has bought while she gets to work with the pancakes: whisking up batter, carefully checking the consistency and tutting at us about the state of our frying pan. Just as I could have predicted, Jane is thorough and conscientious: flipping each yellow and brown blistering disc while balancing herself with one hand and then carefully sliding the finished product onto a plate which she keeps warming in what we discover is the upper oven.
“We’ve got
two
ovens?” asks Vinny, intrigued.
“Didn’t you know?” says Jane disapprovingly. “It’s for cooking light meals or keeping plates warm.”
“Oooh, can’t wait to drop that into conversation at the golf club,” says Vinny.
Finally Jane has used all the batter and the pile of pancakes is dripping with lemon juice and sugar. My mouth is literally watering as she puts them on the table and hands out our knives and forks.
“Deeelicious,” I say as I carefully lift one off the top.
“What are you doing?” says Jane indignantly.
“Erm, taking a pancake.” I wonder if we’re supposed to say grace or whether I just appear horribly greedy which, of course, I am.
“We don’t do it like that,” says Jane. “We cut it like a cake.”
“You
idiot,”
hisses Vinny melodramatically. “Sorry, he’s just got no savoir faire,” he says to Jane but she just mutters, “It’s much better this way” and carefully serves me a syrupy, slithery portion.
We eat quickly.
“Lovely,” I say to Jane by way of apology.
“Thanks,” she says quickly, concentrating on her food. After we’ve finished Vinny knocks back his beer and then burps loudly.
“I see those deportment lessons are finally paying off,” I observe, helping myself to more lemony syrup from the bottom of the plate.
“Daddy’ll be delighted,” says Vinny in a cut crystal accent. Jane is laughing, half-choking on her last mouthful.
“Ooops, sorry,” she says, putting her hand over her mouth and regaining her usual composure. “You’re quite funny.” I look up at Vinny, who is smiling too and then realize that Jane is talking to me.
“What? Me?”
“Yeah, that was rather witty,” she says, as if stating the obvious. “You can be rather droll for a … er …”
“For a stuffed shirt?” I offer.
“I was going to say for a smug yuppie twat,” she says sweetly. Now it’s Vinny’s turn to laugh.
“I’ll hold her and you hit her,” he suggests.
o
n Friday I nip round to Marion’s after work and drive the BMW home with all the windows open and Oasis’s
Wonderwall
blaring out through the warm dirty air.
Saturday morning, after a sleepless night wondering whether it has been nicked every five minutes, I show the car to Vinny because he is walking out of the door for his copy of the
Guardian
and to have the fry-up at the greasy spoon down the road that we often have together. He is not as impressed as I had been hoping he’d be.
“Porkin’ hell,” he says, peering at it from every angle. “She give you this?”
“I wish. She’s just lent it to me for the weekend.”
“Mean old trout. Still, you could always sell it.”
“That’s true. You wanna lift?”
“No, thanks. I think I can walk to the end of the road.”
“Go on,” I say, clicking the remote at the object of my affection.
“Frankly, I’d feel like a bit of a tit in that,” he says, kicking one of the rear wheels.
“As opposed to feeling a tit everywhere else.” It comes out less funny and more unkindly than I’d intended.
“Very witty, Damon Hill,” Vinny laughs sarcastically.
“Oh, go on, mate,” I say. I realize that I genuinely want Vinny’s company more than I want to show the car off to him. “We can drive down to the café.”
“It’s only down the road.”
“Yeah, I know, but it would be a laugh.”
“What you going to have? Double egg, chips, beans and valet parking?”
I smile. “Might do.”
He thinks about it for a moment and says quietly, “No, you’re all right” and sets off down the road whistling. I open the car door and he turns round. “Is this what you want?”
“Heh?”
“This. This big snazzy car.”
It’s a funny thing to say and Vinny is now a good ten feet away from me so it doesn’t help that this odd, unexpected comment is coming to me long distance.
“Er, yeah,” I say. “Well, it’s a bit of a laugh, isn’t it?”
“Is it?” He thinks about it for a moment. Then he laughs and shrugs his shoulders. “What you doing?”
“How do you mean?” I say, by now completely phased.
Vinny starts to walk back towards me.
“I mean, what’s going on, mate? Borrowing this ridiculous motor—are you insured for it?” Am I? Christ, I never stopped to think. I suppose I am otherwise Marion wouldn’t have lent it to me. On the other hand Marion’s consciousness of little domestic details like motor insurance is probably pretty sketchy. “Going to posh restaurants with a bunch of old farts. Flying all over the world like a member of a Fulham jet set.” Somehow Vinny makes it all sound like shit. My desperate, unconvincing, wannabee high life. “How old is this woman? Where did she get her money from?” I’m about to say “from her ex-husbands” as if to defend her and emphasize the fact that, huh,
actually
, Vinny, she is
very rich
but then I realize that this makes it all sound even worse. “Just wondered. Cheers, mate.”
He carries on down the road. I think about joining him for a moment but instead I decide to go to Sainsbury’s so that I can stock up things I can’t carry home on the bus. Very sensible, except that I can’t think of anything to stock up on now that I’m eating with Marion all the time so I buy some boxes of bottled beer, some crisps, a pound of grapes and six family packs of toilet rolls. I wonder whether the girl at the check out thinks I must have a really bad stomach problem to need so much bog roll—if she ever notices what she’s scanning.
Driving back I pass Vinny’s greasy spoon. Fucking hell, Vinny. Every Saturday morning you go that café, have the same breakfast, read the paper, come back and then just lie on the settee and watch telly. The most you might stretch to is the pub with your mates. Which makes me think about Jane. Which gives me an idea.
Our phone book has been thrown down behind the settee along with an old can of Foster’s, heavy with cigarette ends. The first few hundred pages have been stuck together with a sweet-smelling yellow liquid. Fortunately the pages of Ps seem to have escaped this fate so I find the number of Paperchase in Tottenham Court Road very easily.
The first time I call Jane is on her break. I wonder whether this is a good idea after all. The pancake evening was nice, laid back. Do I want to look like I’m trying to sweep her off her feet? Well, perhaps I do. Surely the desire to drive your woman in your car, to impress her with its horsepower and to challenge other predatory males in their smaller, less powerful cars is one of man’s strongest primeval urges.
Anyway, she can’t object to a drive and a lift home on a sunny Saturday afternoon. I try again later and Jane says “Hello?” slightly surprised.
“It’s me, Andrew.”
“Hi.”
“Busy?”
“Sorry? Oh yeah, well it’s quieter now.”
“Thanks for the pancakes the other night.”
“Oh, you’re welcome. I enjoyed it.” There is a pause.
“I was wondering if you wanted a lift home?”
“A lift home?”
“Yeah, a lift in a car?”
“But you haven’t got a car, have you? What are you going to do? Give me a piggy back?”
“Just wait and see.”
“OK. Hang on a minute.” I hear her telling someone that they sold out this morning but there are some more on order. She comes back. “Er, yeah.”
“Where shall I see you?”
“Erm, let’s see. In front of the shop just after six?”
“Great. See you then.”
I don’t feel nearly so confident as I sound but I’m committed now. Besides, not everyone enjoys personal calls at work as much as I do. I watch
Grandstand
and eat my grapes until about half past five and then pick up my keys and step out of the house to see my baby and make sure she hasn’t been keyed.
Admiring my parking, I operate the remote control from thirty feet away but nothing happens—bit optimistic, perhaps. Then I try ten feet and she’s ready. I get in and am greeted by the familiar sweet smell of leather and electronics. The sun is low and it floods the car with a warm, yellow light. I sit back in the seat for a minute and then put the key in the ignition and turn it. Immediately the car growls and comes to life. Lights come on, indicator needles move up ready for action and there are small clicks and buzzes as the electronics check themselves and stand to attention. The control panel is lit up before me like my own private staff reporting for duty. Powerful, efficient, confident, awaiting my orders.
This is not like my friends’ cars where everything has been pushed and pulled and jiggled while they explain, “Sorry, it’s a bit temperamental” or “She doesn’t like the cold weather.” This is not like the car my mother used to take my sister and me to school in where everything was the simplest, cheapest possible and the driver had to do all the work. A car which said, “Well, we’ve had a go with the heating and the hazard lights, but now it’s up to you.” In this car everything is effortless. The merest touch and everything is done for you.
I put on my Ray-Bans and check how I look in the mirror behind the sun shield. Then I take the handbreak off, move it up to “D” and spin the wheel round with the palm of my hand.
* * *
Parking in the West End is a nightmare. Even though most of the shoppers are leaving it takes me ages to find a space which is not barred by some stupid restriction. Finally I find a little side street off Tottenham Court Road. As I get out two lads sitting on a low wall look menacingly at me. Envy? Yeah, probably. Even a couple of policemen sitting in their Ford Fiesta at the traffic lights at Charing Cross Road had done a double-take. “What the hell is a kid like him doing in a car like that?”
But these boys are making me nervous, one watching my car, the other watching me as I walk casually back to Tottenham Court Road. I am just about to turn the corner when anxiety gets the better of me and I decide to return to the car. They are talking to each other now. I get back and wonder exactly what I am going to do—pretend I have forgotten something? This thing is such a bloody responsibility. I get in, start the engine and move off. It is 6:10 p.m. No time to park anywhere else. I drive round, back into the main road. Passing Paperchase on the other side of the road I see Jane waiting by the main entrance, dressed in a white T-shirt and long skirt, carrying a large shoulder bag. She is chewing a nail and looking round suspiciously. She looks prettier than ever.
I slow down and wave, hoping to attract her attention somehow, even though she is looking the other way. I beep the horn quickly but still she doesn’t turn—unlike everyone else. I realize she doesn’t even know what she is looking out for. She probably assumes it’s a Renault Five or a Datsun Cherry. I beep again and shout.
Still she doesn’t turn.
By now the cars in front have started to move off and a cab driver behind honks at me. I consider going round the block and coming back but it would take forever. The cab driver behind starts shouting at me to get a move on.
Jane sighs and puts her bag down between her legs and looks up again but through me. I shout again but what attracts her attention is the cab driver behind me honking again. Jane frowns and I shout again “Jane! Here!” and wave her over. She doesn’t smile but looks round at the traffic in the hope of a gap between the cars. Of course, they are moving quickly and solidly up towards Euston Road. I turn to tell the cabbie to shut up but he has realized what I am waiting for and is moaning to his passengers via his rear-view mirror. Meanwhile, some other cars behind him have decided to vent their frustration and there is an echo of horns down the street. I try to move into the next lane to let them pass but there’s just not enough room. Someone starts shouting at me. Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! This is so uncool.
Jane finds a space before a bus and dashes across to get to me. I set off immediately and we travel for a moment in silence, glad not to be the centre of attention any longer.
“How are you?” I ask as casually as I can.
“OK. Whose car?”
I can’t believe I haven’t got an answer ready for this. “Just a friend.”
“You must have some pretty rich friends.”
I can’t think of an answer to this either. I’m fine if someone asks me in the office but Jane is a bit close to home and I realize that I don’t want to lie to her so I change the subject: “Where shall we go?”
“I don’t know. You’re driving,” she says, running her hands through her hair and gently moving it away from her face. Her white skin looks hot and slightly sticky.
“OK,” I say slowly, thinking about the traffic. “We could drive up to Hampstead Heath and find a pub or something near there.”
“Sure,” she says without enthusiasm.
We crawl through the unrelenting traffic. Part of me is absorbed in driving: desperately urging lights to go green so that I can move ahead a few feet or wondering what the hell other drivers are playing at and all the time hoping more than anything else in all the world that we don’t get stuck behind a bus. But part of me is aware of Jane sitting sulkily beside me—unenthusiastic, ungrateful, unimpressed. After five long, long minutes I decide to break the silence and bring the situation to a head.
“Are you all right?”
“Fine.”
Pause.
“Because I can drop you at a Tube station or a bus stop somewhere. I don’t know how you usually get home but it’s no trouble to me,” I say quickly, looking straight ahead. It all sounds more aggressive than I wanted it to. She looks round at me and I glance across at her quickly.
She says, “Well, what do you want me to say, Andrew? ‘What a big car. I bet you’ve got a big penis as well?’ ”
“Oh! For Christ’s sake,” I say, not sure how to answer her. She laughs irritably and looks across at me, raising her eyebrows quizzically.
“I’m sorry, but do I look like the kind of woman who’s impressed with a big car?”
“Jesus! Of course not!” There is another pause and I decide to act hurt. “OK, I apologize. I just thought I’d offer you a lift home and perhaps we could spend some time together this evening. You could have said no when I rang.” Either my logic or my hurt little-boy voice has the right effect.
She sighs and says, “I’m sorry. I thought it would be fun to meet up but this doesn’t feel right. Here, in this ridiculous car, that’s all.” She looks around it disapprovingly and back at me. “It’s
her
car, isn’t it?” she says slowly.
I’m about to say “Whose?” but I realize that playing the innocent will only make things worse.
“Yes.” We sit at a traffic light which I realize is in fact green.
She sighs. “I can’t do this.”
I look round quickly and she is running her hand over the door looking for the handle.
“Jane!”
“Sorry, Andrew.” She gets out, slams the door and walks off down the street. I see her in the rear-view mirror. I try and stop but suddenly the traffic begins to move again and immediately the frustrated rally driver in the car behind me begins to honk. There is no way I can stop and besides, even by twisting round in my seat and looking behind me I can’t see her. She has just vanished. The honking starts again. The road in front of me is empty.